Obsession

by Claire Lorrimer

  Harriet fell back dry-eyed into the armchair. She had wanted to ask him how he had come by that incriminating half-written letter, but now it did not seem to matter. Not only had it destroyed his love for her, but he no longer wanted anything to do with Charlie … Charlie, who adored him, who preferred his father’s company even to her own.

  Tears filled her eyes. How could they go on living in this house together? Was it possible Brook would retaliate by divorcing her? Even that dreadful disgrace would not be as terrible as the heart-breaking loss of Brook’s love. Why could he not understand that she really had wanted to keep Charlie for him as well as for herself?

  She drew a long, trembling sigh as she recalled how Brook had derived such happiness from the little boy these past three years. If she had been able to see into the future and known she would ultimately forfeit the love of her life, would she still have kept the baby Mrs Bates had left with her in the waiting room, or would she have placed him in an orphanage?

  Her heart missed a beat as she faced the truth. She had known full well that Brook would not have permitted her to keep someone else’s baby. Because she’d wanted so desperately to do so, she had accepted the need to deceive Brook. She had accepted the risk she was taking.

  Was it too late now to win back Brook’s trust? His love? If she were to send Charlie away – to Una perhaps, where one more child would make little difference …?

  Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt. How could she bear to do such a thing when she had grown to love Charlie as deeply as any son she might herself have conceived? She loved him far too much to be able to part with him, yet to have lost Brook’s love was every bit if not more unbearable. Might he not in time forgive her? Love both her and Charlie again?

  She was weeping helplessly when Bessie came into the room to say that Charlie was asking if his father would come upstairs and read him a story. One look at the crumpled, tear-streaked face of her beloved mistress was sufficient for Bessie to guess that, on this occasion, the little invalid’s wishes were not going to be fulfilled.

  SIXTEEN

  1868–1869

  It had been too late to cancel all of Cook’s preparations for Christmas Day, but Sir Walter had not been well and Brook had used this as an excuse to depart immediately after lunch to visit his father. Fortunately Charlie had been preoccupied with his Christmas presents and for once had not wished to claim Brook’s attention. Added to this Brook had invited Paul and Felicity to dinner that evening, which had provided the necessary distraction from the serious rift existing between himself and his wife.

  It was now almost a month since Ellen had given Brook Harriet’s letter to Mrs Bates: a month which had been the unhappiest of Harriet’s life. Her only consolation was Charlie’s steady recovery. Even that had partly added to her distress because Brook now ignored him. He no longer went to the nursery, and Bessie had been given instructions that he was no longer to be taken down to the drawing room to bid his father goodnight, no matter how much he pleaded.

  ‘Papa is very busy,’ Harriet kept telling Charlie. It was the same excuse she used when Charlie saw his father riding, or down by the lake fishing. ‘We mustn’t bother Papa just now because he has a lot of important things to think about.’

  Heart-breaking though such explanations were to Harriet, Charlie accepted them, but whenever he happened to encounter Brook unexpectedly, he would pull away from Bessie’s hand and run to his father, his face bright with pleasure, saying such things as, ‘Are you a busy man today, Papa?’ Or, ‘Papa, can we ride horses today? I’ll be a very good boy.’

  Brook’s replies were curt. ‘I’m afraid not! I have other things I must do!’ And he would walk away, not turning to see the disappointment on the child’s face.

  ‘I’m sure Papa will find time to take you riding again soon, Charlie,’ Harriet would say, close to tears, knowing that Brook was no more likely to acknowledge Charlie than he acknowledged her. She only saw him now at mealtimes, which they would eat together as before but with the minimum, impersonal conversation – something Harriet knew only too well was to preserve some semblance of normality in front of the servants.

  Bessie had told her that all the staff were aware there had been a rift between them but that, unlike herself, they did not know the cause. She had even heard gossip that their master was more often at Mrs Goodall’s house than his own: gossip which was very quickly stopped by Hastings if it was within his hearing.

  Bessie and the valet were once more walking out and, she had informed Harriet, he said the gossip about the master’s visits to Melton Court was well founded. All too often now when Brook saddled his horse, he rode off there with instructions to Hastings that his presence was not required, and that Hastings need not wait up for him if he was late returning home. Nor did he always tell Hastings where he was going.

  When Brook had first discovered the fateful truth, Harriet suspected that it could only have been Ellen who had found the letter, despite her many denials. If not Ellen, then she would give a very great deal to know who had done so, she told herself bitterly. Whoever it was had seen fit to show it to Brook.

  Ellen was the obvious culprit, but her denials had seemed genuine, and it was possible that one of the maids had been into the room whilst she herself had been in the kitchen with Doris. A maid might have thought it wastepaper. She must try not to let her dislike of Ellen cloud her judgement. Harriet had made one attempt to ask Brook who had presented the letter to him, but he had only replied coldly, ‘That is not something I intend to discuss with you.’ And to her horror he had added: ‘Or anything else of a personal nature. As far as I am concerned, our marriage is at an end.’

  Aghast, she had drawn a deep breath and whispered, ‘Brook, you don’t mean … you can’t mean you intend to … to divorce me?’

  He had risen to his feet and in a hard and bitter tone of voice, said, ‘I have not yet made up my mind. I will tell you when I have done so.’ And without giving her a second glance, had walked past her out of the room.

  Again and again since then, Harriet was on the point of going to him … begging him to forgive her for her deception, but pride forbade her doing so.

  Brook now slept in his dressing room, and if he passed Harriet on the staircase or in the hall he would not even acknowledge her unless one of the servants was present, when he would do no more than inform her he was going out, or was about to engage in some other activity.

  Least of all these acts of estrangement was the way he avoided touching her. It was as if any sign of physical intimacy was unbearable to him. He had announced that he did not wish the household to engage in any Christmas festivities this year – using Charlie’s illness and his father’s indisposition as an unlikely reasoning for this extraordinary ruling.

  Nevertheless, Harriet had decided, Brook should not be allowed to spoil Charlie’s Christmas. He had every right to punish her for the pain she had caused him, but no right to hurt Charlie – an innocent, loveable, trusting little boy even if he were not Brook’s son. She would not stand by silently and do nothing to prevent him hurting Charlie, even if it meant she was alienating herself still further from Brook.

  For a start, although Harriet would have liked, as was customary, to hang up Charlie’s stocking from the drawing-room mantelpiece, she had hung it up in the nursery – not so far for Father Christmas to walk with his presents, she had said. Deeply depressed as well as anxious, Harriet was nevertheless still able to manage for a little while to find pleasure in her small son’s happiness. She was also immensely relieved to discover that Brook had not seen fit to expose the truth about Charlie to Sir Walter.

  It had become clear to Harriet that Brook had no intention of revealing the truth to anyone else. He had not tried to stop Charlie, now no longer infectious with the measles, from attending two children’s parties at neighbouring houses. She herself had pleaded a migraine and allowed Bessie to escort him there.

  Every day that now passed with no change in
Brook’s attitude towards her, her depression deepened. He avoided her whenever possible, passing her in a passage or on the stairs without speaking.

  At night, she would lie in their big bed alone, longing for his body beside her, his kisses, his caresses, his protestations of love. How was it possible, she asked herself again and again, that he could withdraw his love so totally? That he could not find it in his heart to forgive her, to rediscover his love for Charlie, who was least of all at fault. She was tormented, too, by the suspicion that Brook’s frequent visits to London were to see his lawyer to arrange a divorce.

  It was not that she feared the loss of her home or even the disgrace if she were deemed the guilty party in a divorce and was barred from society. Nor was she afraid Brook would claim custody of Charlie, who he now addressed as infrequently as he did her. It was the loss of his love – not just for her but for the little boy who, despite Brook’s neglect, continued to love him as much as she did.

  It was almost nine years ago, Harriet reflected, when as a young girl of fifteen she had first set eyes on Brook at her father’s shooting party, and told Bessie she had met the man to whom she wished one day to be married. There had not been a day in the whole of her life since then that she had stopped loving Brook, and never once had she wished herself anywhere but with him. To have to live apart from him now were he to divorce her would be unendurable pain, even if she still had Charlie to console her.

  Bessie, her only confidant, did what little she could to bolster Harriet’s growing despair. Hastings, Bessie said, was too loyal to his master to tell her what Brook did when he was in London, but he had admitted that Brook was very far from being a happy man; that he was drinking more than was good for him and, quite often, had to be helped to bed by Hastings when he returned from Melton Court.

  Felicity continued to be her staunch friend. Seeing Harriet’s depression, she had invited her to discuss the obvious rift between her and Brook.

  When he came to Melton Court the other evening, she had told Harriet, he was by no means his normal self. He’d consumed far too much alcohol and had become loquacious. One of the maids, he’d told her, had brought him a letter which, as far as she could gather, suggested that Charlie was not his child.

  Ignoring Harriet’s gasp, she continued, ‘Of course, I told Brook not to be so silly,’ Felicity had related. ‘I told him that of course Charlie was his son, but he insisted the letter contained positive proof that he was not so.’

  Felicity had then assured Harriet that she had refused to take Brook’s remarks seriously until finally he’d told her that the half-written letter had made it quite clear that some woman he did not know had given her own baby to Harriet.

  Felicity had then put her arm comfortingly around Harriet’s shoulders, saying, ‘I told him a dozen times that I did not believe it for one minute, but that even if it were true, no one could love her husband more than you do, but Brook said he could never forgive you for deceiving him.’

  Giving Harriet’s hand a little squeeze, she’d said, ‘I am so sorry, dearest, and I will continue to do whatever I can to make him see that you would never ever deceive him in such a manner. People say that time is a great healer, and I’m sure Brook will soon come to his senses. However, I do not think it would be advisable for you to plead with him for understanding, for forgiveness, for a sin you did not commit. It is for him to beg your forgiveness for thinking you capable of such deception.’

  Her voice gained conviction as she added: ‘Having lived with my brother for so many years, I do know a little about the way men’s minds work – how they judge us women. My advice is to ignore Brook: turn the tables on him and behave as if he has wronged you by blaming you when you were only trying to make him happy. I can see that, however mistakenly, you meant well.’

  ‘Thank you so much for being such a good friend, Felicity. Where would I have been without you?’ Harriet had said quietly.

  She took Felicity’s advice. Brook did not leave the house after breakfast, as was his custom, and she would put on a warm cloak and seek the privacy of the summerhouse where she knew she would not be seen. It was there she gave way to the tears that inevitably followed her morning visit to Charlie. As often as not, she would find him kneeling on the nursery window seat staring down to the driveway below, and when she went to see what was interesting him, her heart would plunge. It was Brook, the man he called Papa, standing beside his favourite black stallion, Shamrock, who, saddled and harnessed, was pawing the gravel impatiently as Brook talked to Thomas, the head groom. Hoping to catch his father’s attention, Charlie would wave both small hands, hoping Brook would look up and wave back to him as he had so often done in the past. His little face would look so crestfallen when Brook finally leapt into the saddle and rode off at a smart trot without so much as a glance at the nursery window.

  ‘Papa gone!’ he would say sadly. ‘Papa’s got busy work.’

  She always tried to distract him by offering to read a story or allowing him to play with his toy castle which, being quite fragile, was usually kept out of harm’s way. It was one of the very expensive presents Felicity had given him and never failed to divert him.

  How could Brook be so cruel to the innocent child he had once loved so dearly? she asked herself tearfully. That he should wish to punish her for the lies she’d told him was understandable, but Charlie … Charlie who loved him almost as much as she did.

  Harriet longed to go to Brook and beg him to tell her if he did intend to divorce her; and if not, would a time come when he would forgive her? When he could love her and Charlie again? Her pride which forbade such action might well have weakened were it not for Felicity’s persuasions that he was far more likely to relent if he thought she was contemplating leaving him and would do so if he did not come to his senses.

  Although her instinct was to follow her heart, Harriet was very conscious of the fact that Felicity was not only older but undoubtedly more experienced in the ways of men than she was, having grown up with a brother. Brook, Felicity said, knew better than anyone in the world how much Harriet loved him. He must know already that she had only ever wanted his happiness. If he had any compassion, any understanding, he would not go on treating her in such an unrelenting fashion.

  January gave way to February, and Harriet could bear the situation no longer. For once, she did not consult Felicity about the action she was about to take. Tonight, St Valentine’s Day, she resolved she would not allow Brook to sit at the opposite end of the dining table almost totally silent, answering her questions with no more than the minimum courtesy required of him. Tonight she would make him see that if he was not prepared for them to be reconciled and start to behave differently towards her, she might cease to care whether he divorced her or not.

  Dry-eyed, she went to her dressing room and rang the bell impatiently for Ellen. When the maid came in, she instructed her to find in her wardrobe Brook’s favourite evening gown – a lovely dark rose silk dress which she had worn on her honeymoon. It had a tight-fitting bodice, its décolletage trimmed with lace, and the billowing skirt was decorated with pink and lime-green flowers. Although it was by now somewhat dated, he always loved to see her in it.

  ‘I shall want my gold and pearl locket, and the gold filigree earrings with the pearl drops,’ she instructed Ellen. ‘As for my hair, I will have it smooth on top, plaited, and folded into a chignon.’

  Her final request was for plenty of hot water brought up by five o’clock so that she could take a bath before Ellen dressed her.

  Looking at Ellen’s expressionless face, she added: ‘One more thing, please – my bracelet with the cameo and the eternity ring my husband gave me to celebrate Charlie’s birth.’

  Had she imagined it, she wondered as she went back downstairs to consult Cook about changes she wished her to make to the dinner menu, or had Ellen’s customary expressionless face looked surprised? Disapproving? Uneasy?

  Harriet had never quite made up her mind whether it h
ad indeed been Ellen who had found her letter to Mrs Bates, and still less that having done so she would have shown it to Brook. Felicity, too, was adamant in her belief that it was the very last thing Ellen would have done; that, uncharismatic though the maid might be, she was at heart a very kind, selfless woman whose sole purpose was to improve her sister’s life.

  When Harriet pointed out that there would have been no one else in her room that morning but Ellen, Felicity had argued that the woman would have had nothing to gain and would have been certain of dismissal without a reference had Harriet found her guilty.

  Since then, Harriet had tried even harder to overcome her antipathy to her maid, telling herself that the poor woman worked well and toiled long hours to support her disabled sister. It was unfair of her to compare Ellen with her dear Bessie. She still thanked God in her prayers every night for Bessie’s survival and safe return home.

  To her relief, Hastings had been surprisingly understanding about Bessie’s situation in the Far East when he finally insisted upon her telling him all the facts about the months of her abduction. Now the pair were planning to marry when Charlie was seven years old and sent away to boarding school, at which point he would no longer need a nanny.

  Sending Charlie away to school was a prospect Harriet dreaded but, she decided, need not be faced until the time came for him to follow in Brook’s footsteps – if Brook still wished him to go to his old school. That evening, looking with unashamed satisfaction at her reflection in the cheval-glass mirror, Harriet’s face lit up with a rare smile. Tonight she was just as she had hoped – at the loveliest she could be. She was going to seduce her husband: make him want her – want to kiss her, make love to her, come to her bed once again.

  She had found out from Hastings that Brook was not – as happened so often – intending to absent himself from the house and, although he’d ridden off with his groom after breakfast, he had returned in time for luncheon and not left the house again.